


Drink a toast to innocence, Drink a toast to now

by DesignatedGrape



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Christmas Eve, I promise, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, No Angst, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:55:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27303733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesignatedGrape/pseuds/DesignatedGrape
Summary: He’s a little softer, now, the past few years and a cozy sweater doing the work of rounding out some of his sharp edges. His stubble is a little darker; his laugh lines are a little deeper. But Patrick would know that face anywhere. It’s a face he’s pictured at least once a day, every day, for the last three years.David and Patrick meet one Christmas Eve in Toronto, and run into each other again three years later.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 77
Kudos: 243
Collections: Schitt's Creek: Frozen Over (2020)





	Drink a toast to innocence, Drink a toast to now

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [SCFrozenOver2020](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/SCFrozenOver2020) collection. 



> **Prompt:**  
>  David and Patrick meet again in a grocery store on Christmas Eve after years apart. An AU fic loosely based on the song Same Old Lang Syne by Dan Fogelberg. Please give them a happier ending than the song does though because David and Patrick should always have a happy ending!
> 
> Thank you to [Poutini](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poutini) for the read-through and the encouragement!

**2016**

_Potatoes. Rosemary. Garlic. Butter._ Patrick rounds the corner into the frozen foods aisle, leaning his arms on his shopping cart and focusing on mentally checking off the grocery list pulled up on his phone. Foodland is blissfully empty at 7 p.m. on Christmas Eve, and hopefully he can get out of here quickly so that he can get started on some cooking prep for tomorrow. _Canned pumpkin. Evaporated milk. Just need the frozen pie crust—_

A metallic crash and the lurch of his shopping cart handle jolt Patrick out of his concentration, and he looks up with a start, ready to apologize profusely to the person he has just collided with, but the words evaporate on his tongue when he sees the familiar face of the man standing in front of him.

He’s a little softer, now, the past few years and a cozy sweater doing the work of rounding out some of his sharp edges. His stubble is a little darker; his laugh lines are a little deeper. But Patrick would know that face anywhere. It’s a face he’s pictured at least once a day, every day, for the last three years. 

**2013**

Patrick pulls open the door to BarChef and forces himself to act like he belongs in a place like this, where the cheapest drinks are sixteen dollars apiece, and, if the pictures on the website are any indication, their plating style includes extensive use of dry ice, leafy stems, and tweezers for precise placement. The space is illuminated mostly by candles and soft white Christmas lights, and Patrick tucks his gloves into his coat pockets while his eyes adjust to the dim lighting, scanning the room for an empty place to sit.

“Can I help you?” the hostess asks.

“Oh, uh, I just wanted to have a drink.”

“Will you be by yourself this evening?” She looks down at the iPad on the stand in front of her.

“Um, I don’t have a reservation…” he trails off. Maybe this was a mistake.

The hostess smiles kindly at him. “We’re a seated cocktail bar, so if you’d like to put your name on the list, I can let you know when a table becomes available. Or, the bar is open seating”—she sweeps a graceful arm to her left, indicating the long bar that takes up most of the wall—”so you can try your luck over there.”

Patrick nods, relieved. He smiles in thanks and heads for the only open spot, next to a tall man with dark hair swept high off his head. He’s wearing a silky button-up printed with roses in shades of black, white, and gray, and he has a silver chain necklace tucked under his collar. The long, ringed fingers of his right hand are wrapped delicately around a coupe glass, and the other hand rests on the bartop, fingers drumming out an inscrutable rhythm. He takes a small sip and places his drink carefully back onto the square, water-marked coaster sitting on the dark wood, before nudging the cardboard so that its edge is aligned parallel with the line of the bar.

“Is this seat taken?” Patrick asks.

The man looks up in surprise and shakes his head minutely, and gestures towards the chair to his left. “Be my guest.”

Patrick removes his coat and hangs it over the back of the chair, and unbuttons his blazer before sitting down. The bartender comes over a moment later and hands him a menu, telling him to call her back over if he has any questions, and Patrick is left alone with an intimidating array of craft cocktail options. He glances over at his neighbor, who is now engrossed in his phone. “I’m feeling a little out of my element, here. I’m usually more of a beer guy. Do you have any recommendations?”

The man turns to look at him, and his eyes flick up and down Patrick’s body, his mouth curving into a small smirk. “Well,” he answers, voice low, “that depends what you’re looking for.” 

Patrick feels his cheeks heat, and the man’s smirk deepens. “Um, I don’t know, exactly. I just figured...it’s Christmas Eve, and I’m here by myself, so I thought I might try something new tonight.”

The man quirks an impressive eyebrow before leaning into Patrick’s space to peer at the menu in his hands. “Sweet? Dry? Smoky? Herbaceous?”

“Maybe...maybe herbaceous? That sounds good.”

The man taps on a drink listed on the menu. "Well, I’m drinking a Late Harvest Vesper." He sits back and flips his ringed hand towards his own glass. "It’s a little sweet, but very delicious.”

Patrick scans the description: gin, thyme, candied white grape, bay leaf, grapefruit zest.

Patrick nods. “That sounds good. I think I’ll order that. Thank you…” He pauses, leaving the unasked question hanging in the air.

“David.”

“David. Nice to meet you. I’m Patrick.” He reaches out for a handshake, and David snakes his warm, soft palm into Patrick’s rough one. David’s grip is strong, but not aggressive; it's friendly and pleasant, so unlike the practiced business handshakes that Patrick is used to exchanging. Patrick has never been self-conscious about his hands before, but he suddenly wonders—worries—what David might be thinking about Patrick’s calloused fingers.

The bartender returns, and Patrick places his order before turning back to David. “So what brings you to a bar by yourself on Christmas Eve?”

David narrows his eyes and pushes his lips into his cheek, and Patrick notices a deep dimple hiding in David’s dark stubble. 

“I could ask you the same thing.”

Patrick chuckles. “Fair enough.” The bartender returns with his drink, and Patrick thanks her. He takes a sip. It’s aromatic and complex, and the lemony taste of thyme and the slight burn of gin linger on his palate even after he swallows. He turns back to David, who is watching him intently.

“Well?”

“It’s delicious. Excellent recommendation.”

David smiles in satisfaction, and a second dimple on his other cheek makes itself known. “Good.”

“So I was about to tell you why I’m here by myself on Christmas Eve.”

“Oh, no. You don’t have to do that." David looks concerned, now, fluttering his hands around as if to wave away whatever Patrick is thinking, and Patrick hurries to speak again.

“No, it’s okay. I’m a grad student. I’m working on my MBA at U of T. Rotman.” David nods in recognition. “I’m going back home tomorrow for Christmas, but I was kind of avoiding going tonight. My parents are having a big Christmas Eve party, and, uh, someone’s going to be there who I don’t want to see.”

David picks up his glass and tilts it towards Patrick in a silent toast. “My situation is shockingly similar? I actually _was_ at my parents’ Christmas Eve party tonight, but I got tired of all the bullshit. I had to get out of there.”

“Your parents didn’t mind you leaving?”

David huffs a laugh. “They absolutely didn't notice.” He traces a finger around the rim of his glass. “It’s a pretty big party. It's basically just an opportunity for my parents to schmooze and show off.” He looks back up at Patrick. "I mean, the parties are usually fun, but I guess I just wasn't in the mood tonight."

Patrick gives David what he hopes is a sympathetic look. "Looking for something different tonight, yourself?"

David smiles with a hint of predatory edge, and Patrick suppresses a shiver. 

"Maybe."

Patrick tears his eyes away from the heat of David's gaze, studying his drink for a moment as he tries to slow his rapid heartbeat. "Well," he says finally, "if we’re being honest with each other, I’ll also tell you that the person I’m trying to avoid is my ex-fiancée.” Patrick hazards a glance back up at David, who is leaning away from him now, all traces of a smile gone.

“Wow. That’s worse than my thing, I think.”

Patrick grimaces. “She and I have been together on and off since high school. We broke up this time because the distance was too hard for her, but I only have one semester left of my degree, so I don’t know what’s going to happen now. I just wasn't ready to see her tonight.” Patrick takes a few sips of his drink, hoping the sharp bite of the liquor will burn away the ache of worry in his chest. “Enough of that, though. Tell me about yourself. What do you do here?”

“Oh, I don’t, actually. I'm just in town until Boxing Day. My parents’ house is outside of the city, and I have a condo downtown, but I live in New York. I’m a gallerist.” David’s voice changes as he speaks, taking on an aloofness that hadn't been there before. He looks harder, somehow. Colder. Patrick is struck with the overwhelming urge to pull his pigtails.

"My mom does that, too. She's currently exhibiting a collection of early works from a wildly underappreciated Canadian artist."

"Oh? What's the name?"

"Brewer." David frowns, clearly trying to place it. Patrick nods sagely. "Yeah, I told you—wildly underappreciated. My grade two art teacher had wonderful things to say about my watercolor work, but reviews of my kindergarten self-portrait series were decidedly mixed."

David's jaw drops in shock, and Patrick is sure that he's crossed a line. An apology is on the tip of his tongue, but then David bursts out laughing, a sound of incandescent joy for which Patrick thinks he would be willing to commit unspeakable acts just to hear it again. 

David looks back at Patrick, hard mask gone, chocolate brown eyes sparkling. "Well, plenty of great artists were never famous in their time. So you're in good company."

Patrick winks at him and takes another sip of his drink, exhilaration coursing through his body. He's never felt anything like this before; never during any baseball or hockey game, never at any open mic performance, never with Rachel.

They talk and laugh in the warm glow of the candles, against the soundtrack of the other patrons' quiet conversations, until Patrick picks up his glass only to find it empty. He looks around to see that the crowd at the bar has thinned, and he is suddenly acutely aware that he and David are turned to fully face each other, knees bumping, and David’s hand is resting heavily on Patrick’s thigh. He sucks in a sharp breath at the sensation, reveling in the warmth and weight of David's touch, and his stomach tingles with an explosion of butterflies.

He’s already finished his drink, and it’s getting late. He should say goodnight. He should pay his tab, and shake David’s hand, and go back to his apartment to pack for tomorrow.

Instead, he asks, "Do you want to go for a walk?"

**2016**

"Um, hello?" David’s face is pinched in annoyance, and he holds his arms out to the sides expectantly, a pint of ice cream clutched in his right hand, waiting for Patrick to speak. 

"S-sorry," he stammers. "I just… Are you David?" 

David's expressive eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. "Do I know you?" 

Patrick feels his shoulders tense. Three years with nothing but memories and his imagination...of course he’s blown this out of proportion. David is gorgeous, and funny, and interesting, and he’s probably met a thousand people in the same way he met Patrick. “You probably don’t remember. We met in a bar in Toronto? It was back on Christmas Eve in 2013. Patrick." He gestures to himself. 

David’s eyes widen in recognition, and the pint of Peanut Butter Half Baked drops to the floor, landing on the yellowed linoleum with a muted thud. “Patrick," he repeats. "Oh my god." 

Relief floods through Patrick, and he can’t help the grin that overtakes his face. David remembers him. 

“Hi.”

“Hi. How, um-” David bends to retrieve the ice cream from the floor. “How have you been?”

“Good, good. Uh, I have to say, rural Ontario is about the last place I would have expected to run into you. What are you doing here?” _Shit. Wait._ He backtracks quickly. “I mean, I’m happy to see you. I’m just surprised.”

David is suddenly very interested in the nutrition facts of the ice cream still in his hand, now surely starting to melt. “Um, I live here. Well, almost here. I live in Schitt’s Creek. But even Foodland is better than Brebner’s when you are looking for any flavor of ice cream that isn’t vanilla or chocolate.”

Hope blooms in Patrick’s chest. David is here. David is _really_ here. But… “What happened to New York?”

David blows out a breath. “That...is a very long story.”

Patrick shrugs, trying determinedly to fake nonchalance. “I don’t have anywhere I need to be.”

David scrunches up his face in discomfort before answering. “Okay. So first, um, I don’t think I ever told you my last name. It’s Rose. As in—”

Realization slams into Patrick. “Rose Video. Oh my god, I read about that. David, that was _you_?” He frowns, remembering one detail in particular. “Your dad’s business manager. He—”

“He fucked us over? Yup, pretty much.”

“You know, your dad’s picture was all over the internet. In retrospect, I really should have realized you were related.” He gestures to his own eyebrows.

“Mmmkay, thanks for that.” David purses his lips in the way that Patrick remembers means he’s trying not to smile, and oh, there is that dimple again. Patrick desperately wants to press a kiss to it, wants to tell it how much he’s missed it these last few years. He gives David a playful smile, instead, and he’s rewarded with the glorious sound of David’s bright laugh. How has he survived three years without hearing that?

Patrick grabs a packaged pie crust from the freezer and David trails him as they pass through the checkout line, telling Patrick the story of the Roses’ fall from wealth, David’s father's ridiculous gift of a town, and rebuilding some semblance of a life over the last year and a half. If Patrick was smitten with David before, he doesn’t stand a chance now. 

“David, you are incredible.” They’re standing outside in the cold, hugging their paper grocery bags to their chests, their breath puffing out translucent clouds in the night air as snowflakes flutter around them. 

David preens facetiously at the compliment. “Obviously.”

Patrick laughs. “Yes, obviously. But what I mean is, your whole family had the rug ripped out from under you, but you’re here, making a brand new life for yourselves. I don’t know how I would have coped if something like that happened to me.”

David shrugs. “We didn’t have a choice. What else were we going to do?”

“I guess so. But still. I really admire you,” Patrick says. David shifts the bag in his arms and looks away, blushing, and Patrick watches a few snowflakes land and melt away on the warmth of David's pink cheeks. God, he’s so cute. “Hey, um, I’d really love to keep catching up. Do you want to go grab a drink, maybe?”

David studies his face, considering, and Patrick schools his expression, refusing to let his desperation show. 

“Sure, I could go for a drink.”

**2013**

Toronto is sparkling in December, the illuminated holiday decorations and the bright windows of the tall buildings twinkling like diamonds in the moonlight. The winter air is practically frigid, but Patrick can't bring himself to put his right hand in his pocket, not when it keeps bumping against David's left hand where their arms swing between their bodies, sending up a tiny shockwave of warmth with every touch.

"So you said you only have one semester left of your degree," David says. "Do you know what you want to do next?"

Patrick has asked himself this same question countless times over the past two years. He knew he wanted to get a business degree, but after that… "I'm not sure, actually. It's been nice being in the city for a little while, but I don't really see myself here long term. I think I'd rather be in a smaller town, like where I grew up. Except, not where I grew up."

"You don't like it there?"

"It's not that. It's just that everyone there knows me. Everyone has expectations for me. I want to see what I can do once I'm away from all of that." He pauses, but the next words tumble out before he can rein them back in. "I've always wanted to open my own business. I don't know what it would be, but I like the idea of making something my own." He looks up at David hesitantly, but David is nodding.

"I get that. Opening my gallery was the greatest accomplishment of my life. It feels affirming to build something and see it grow and succeed. I'm actually working on plans to open a second one sometime in the next six months."

“That’s incredible, David. Congratulations.”  
  
“Thank you.” David smiles softly, and Patrick’s breath catches in his throat at the sight of him: scarf wrapped high against his sharp jawline, full lips pursed, cheeks pink from the cold. He is gorgeous.

They walk on in comfortable silence, until Patrick suddenly realizes that David isn’t beside him anymore. He feels a sharp tug on his arm, and before Patrick can react, his feet are spinning around of their own accord, and he’s being pulled tight into David’s chest. David’s strong arms wrap around his shoulders, and a pair of soft, warm lips press up against his. It’s a chaste kiss, by all accounts: mouths closed, hands resolutely in safe territory. But Patrick is lit up from the inside, sparks ricocheting through his gut, his chest, his arms, his toes. This kiss...this is like nothing Patrick has ever felt before, and he kisses David back with everything he has, everything he feels, everything he never knew he wanted.

Too soon, David is pulling away, and every fiber of Patrick’s being screams _not yet._ Patrick resists, holding him close and walking them backwards until David’s back bumps up against the wall of the apartment building behind them. David gasps in surprise, and Patrick gently runs his tongue along David’s upper lip, requesting entry. Patrick feels the soft flick of David’s tongue meeting his own, and oh, oh, if that first kiss was like sparklers, then this is the finale of the Canada Day fireworks. Every centimeter of his body is alive, every hair is standing on its end, and Patrick loses himself in the feeling of David, David, David.

The minutes stretch out sweet and slow like molasses, and they trade kisses and bites and licks and whines until Patrick finds himself slowing to a stop, bumping his nose lightly against David’s before placing one more soft kiss on David’s pink, bitten lips.

David’s eyes are lust-glazed as he looks down at Patrick. He jerks his head towards the building. "This is my place. Do you want to come up?"

The wind rushes out of Patrick's lungs. "Uh. I...I've never—" 

"That's okay," David purrs, lithe fingers tickling along Patrick's shoulders.

"No, I mean, I'd never even kissed a guy until a few minutes ago. Never really _considered_ kissing a guy until tonight." David's hands still, his face frozen in an expression that Patrick thinks might mean he’s starting to panic.

"Um." 

"No, no, no. I liked it. I really, _really_ liked it." He presses his hips into David's in demonstration. They're both at least half hard, and Patrick huffs out a harsh breath at the sharp zing that shoots through his stomach and chest from the sensation of David hot against him.

David’s eyes widen in delight for a moment, as if he can read Patrick's mind, but as quickly as the expression had appeared, it's gone, replaced instead with a warm smile. “It’s up to you. No pressure.”

Patrick looks up at the towering glass skyscraper, a litany of terrifying, exhilarating questions and possibilities cascading through his mind. Does he want this? What does it mean if he does this? Is he bi? Gay? It would certainly explain a few things. What will David expect? Will Patrick be terrible at it? What if he hates it? What if he _loves_ it? 

A gentle squeeze on Patrick's shoulders interrupts his spiral of worry. He looks back at the beautiful, sincere, fascinating, irresistible man standing in front of him, and everything else melts away. He knows the answer.

“Yes. Let’s go upstairs.”

**2016**

"Okay, how are none of the bars open on Christmas Eve? Isn’t this a prime day for sad, lonely people to go drink away their problems?”

Patrick shifts into reverse and pulls out of the parking lot. “I mean, yeah, probably, considering that's how we met.”

David shoots him a derisive look. “Excuse you, I am neither sad, nor lonely.”

Patrick laughs. “No? Then what were you doing shopping alone in a grocery store an hour away from home on Christmas Eve?”

David crosses his arms. “What were _you_ doing alone in a grocery store on Christmas Eve?”

“I was shopping for tomorrow. My parents are coming into town.”

“Are the in-laws coming, too?”

“The— What?”

“The in-laws. You said in Toronto that you had broken up with your fiancée, and that you were going to see her over Christmas, and you didn’t know what you were going to do. Right?”

 _David remembers that?_

“I mean, yeah,” Patrick begins, “but I meant that I didn’t want to get back together with her, and I didn’t trust myself not to fall back into it. So I didn’t know what I was going to do to avoid it.”

“So...you’re not married?”

“God, David, no. I’m gay.”

“Oh,” David breathes. “So that night—”

“Was pretty illuminating for me, yeah. And just for the record, I’m not seeing anyone right now, nor do I have any exes that I might fall back into things with. I’m very, very single.” Patrick glances at David pointedly as he turns back into the Foodland parking lot. He pulls into the empty space next to David’s car, shifts into park, and turns in his seat to face David.

"I know the bars were a bust, but do you still want a drink? I went to the LCBO before I came grocery shopping, so I have beer—” David grimaces; Patrick laughs “—or Rock Creek."

“Rock Creek, please."

Patrick unbuckles and stretches into the back seat for a cider for David and a beer for himself. David is studying his fingernails intently when Patrick plops back into his seat. He opens both drinks and nudges David’s shoulder with the can to get his attention.

“What should we toast to?” Patrick asks.

David gazes out the windshield, thinking, and Patrick traces the angles of his jaw and cheekbones with his eyes. David turns back to him after a moment, eyes soft and fond. “To old friends.”

Warmth spreads through Patrick’s chest, and he smiles at David, raising his can. “To old friends.”

They clink their cans together and sip.

“So you’ve heard my story. What have you been up to all this time?” David asks. 

Patrick takes another drink before answering. “Not much. I mean, coming out to everyone in my life. That was a really fun thing to do at twenty-seven. But other than that, I’ve been living here for the past couple years, working for an organization that helps small businesses get started.”

"Didn’t you want to start your own business?" David asks.

“I can’t believe you remember all of this.”

“Of course I do. That night…” he looks down at the can in his hands. “I’ve never met anyone else like you, Patrick. You’re so nice, and funny, and so incredibly _capable_...that’s very sexy, by the way”—Patrick’s cheeks heat and he feels a tug low in his stomach at David calling him _sexy_ , but David is still saying nice things, so he tries to concentrate—"and I could tell you were going to do something incredible with your life.”

“Well, I appreciate your confidence in me, but I definitely haven’t done anything incredible yet. I never figured out what kind of store I wanted to open. I like helping people with their businesses, but it’s still not the same as having something that’s my own, you know? Like your galleries.”

David blanches at that. “Right. My galleries." He clears his throat. "So...it turns out that my parents were actually funding my galleries? They were buying all my patrons. So it seems that my proudest accomplishments were all a sham. I found out about a month ago. Felt great." David takes a large swig of his cider.

Patrick is aghast. "David, that's...god." He shakes his head, anger coiling hot under his ribs.

"Yeah, that's pretty much how I reacted, too."

"How did you find out?"

David huffs a laugh. "Well, here's something fun. I'm actually trying to open a store in Schitt's Creek."

"David! That's amazing!"

"Thanks." The corners of his lips twitch slightly. It's not quite a smile, but almost. "I had to submit a lease application to the town council for the space I wanted to use, and my mother, who is on council, voted against me. I confronted her about it, and she told me the truth. But it worked out. I got the lease, so now I'm just trying to figure everything out."

Patrick jumps at the opening. "You know, I'd be happy to help, if you want." 

"Oh, no, I couldn't ask you to do that." 

"No, seriously. It's my actual job." He sets his beer carefully on the dashboard and reaches into his back pocket to pull out his wallet. "Here, let me give you my card. This is my office phone on the front. But, um—" he digs a pen out of the center console and scribbles his number on the back of the card "—this is my cell." 

He hands the card to David, who frowns in confusion. "Okay, so which..." 

"Well, either one is fine if you want to talk about your business. But—" Patrick summons up every ounce of courage he has, and lets the truth spill out unimpeded "—I really like you, David. I liked you back then, and I'd be lying if I said I hadn't thought about you a lot these last three years. I'd like to take you on a date. A real one." He takes a breath and forces himself to hold David's gaze. "So if that's something you want, too, best to use my cell, I think." 

David’s lips press together, dimples popping with the effort of holding back a grin. "Okay. Yes, I will go on a date with you."

Patrick's heart beats out a rapturous symphony, and he can't bring himself to care that his elation is almost certainly written all over his face. "I'm really glad I ran into you tonight, David." 

David’s cheeks give up the fight, then, and his face blooms into a breathtaking smile. "That is a really lovely thing to say." 

Patrick can't help teasing him for that, so he leans towards David, smirking, and says into the narrowing space between them, "And I'm so glad you did, Patrick, because that night in Toronto was one of the best nights of my life." 

David quirks an eyebrow and moves closer. "Mm. A bold claim." 

"Is it, though?" Patrick murmurs against his lips. David closes the last remaining distance between them, surging forward and kissing him deeply.

**2013**

Patrick stands from the bed to tug on his jeans and tuck in his shirt. As he buckles his belt, he turns around to look at David: leaning back on his hands, sheets pooled around his waist, hair mussed, dark curls scattered across his firm chest. _God._ Michelangelo picked the wrong David to immortalize. He flashes Patrick a devastating smile, and Patrick can't help but crawl back across the bed and lean in for another searing kiss.

He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against David’s. "I’m sorry that I have to go. I really do have to leave early in the morning.”

David leans back onto his elbows and waves him off. “I know, it’s fine. Really. I, um...” He looks away, bashful, and Patrick’s heart melts just a little. “I had a nice time. Everything, not just...not just this.” He gestures to the bed.

Patrick gazes at him with maybe more fondness than he should for having spent only one evening together, because really, “nice” doesn’t even begin to describe it. Momentous. Life-changing. Earth-shattering, perhaps. 

“Me, too. I'm so glad I met you, David.”

"You, too, Patrick.” David looks right into Patrick’s eyes, gazing at him with sparkling pools of onyx that Patrick wants to fall into over and over again. “Um, good luck...wherever you end up." 

Patrick reaches out and caresses David's cheekbone with his thumb. “Good luck with your galleries. You will do amazing things in New York. I’m sure of it.” He takes a moment to memorize David’s beautiful face—his eyebrows, his stubble, his cheekbones, his lips, the mole on his chin—before leaning in for one last lingering kiss.

“Goodnight, David." 

"Goodnight, Patrick." 

Patrick rides the elevator back down, and he can’t be sure if the swooping in his stomach is because of the movement as it slows to a stop, or because of the residual effects of the incredible man he just left upstairs. He pushes out of the door of David’s building and tilts his head to the sky, eyes closed, unable to contain the grin that is surely spreading across his face. He takes a deep breath, the frigid December air burning in his lungs and grounding him just enough to keep him from floating away on a cloud of euphoria, and he turns toward home.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr](https://designatedgrape.tumblr.com/).


End file.
